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If I were yonder couch of gold,

And thou the pearl within it plac'd, I would not let an eye behold

The sacred gem my arms embrac'd! If I were yonder orange-tree,

And thou the blossom blooming there, I would not yield a breath of thee,

To scent the most imploring air ! Oh! bend not o'er the water's brink,

Give not the wave that rosy sigh, Nor let its burning mirror drink

The soft reflection of thine eye. That glossy hair, that glowing cheek,

Upon the billows pour their beam So warmly, that my soul could seek

Its Nea in the painted stream. The painted stream my chilly grave

And nuptial bed at once may be, I'll wed thee in that mimic wave,

And die upon the shade of thee ! Behold the leafy mangrove, bending

O'er the waters blue and bright, Like Nea's silky lashes, lending

Shadow to her eyes of light' Oh, my beloved ! where'er I turn,

Some trace of thee enchants mine eyes, In every star thy glances burn,

Thy blush on every flowret lies.
But then thy breath -not all the fire,

That lights the lone Semenda's' death
In eastern climes could e'er respire

An odour like thy dulcet breath!
I pray thee, on those lips of thine

To wear this rosy leaf for me,
And breathe of something not divine,

Since nothing human breathes of thee !
All other charms of thine I meet

In nature, but thy sigh alone; Then take, oh! take, though not so sweet,

The breath of roses for thine own! So, while I walk the flowery grove,

The bud that gives, through morning dew, The lustre of the lips I love,

May seem to give their perfume too!

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep

An island of lovelier charms;
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms !
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye,

Their melody balm to the ear;
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh,

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here !
The down from his wing is as white as the pearl

Thy lips for their cabinet stole,
And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl,

As a murmur of thine on the soul!
Oh, fly to the clime, where he pillows the death,

As he cradles the birth of the year;
Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath,

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here !
How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale,

And brightening the bosom of morn,
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn!
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts,

Is a veil of a vestal severe;
No, no,-thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts,

Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here !
But fly to his region—lay open thy zone,

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim,
To think that a bosom, as white as his own,

Should not melt in the day-beam like him!
Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet

O'er his luminous path will appearFly! my beloved ! this island is sweet,

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here!

Ενταύθα δε καθαρμισται ημιν, και ο, τι μεν ονομα τη νησο ου και οιδα χρυση δ' αν τρος γι μου ονομαζοιτο.

Philostrat. Icon. 17. Lib. 2.

ON SEEING AN INFANT IN NEA'S ARMS.
The first ambrosial child of bliss,

That Psyche to her bosom prest,
Was not a brighter babe than thia,

Nor blush'd upon a lovelier breast !
His little snow-white fingers, straying

Along her lips' luxuriant flower,
Look'd like a flight of ring-doves playing,

Silvery through a roseate bower!
And when, to shade the playful boy,

Her dark hair fell, in mazes bright, 1 Referunt tamen quidam in interiore India avem esse, nomine Semendam, etc. Cardan. 10 de Subtilitat. Cæsar Scaliger seoms to think Semenda but another name for the Phonix. Exercitat. 233.

I STOLE along the flowery bank,
While many a bending sea-grape' drank
The sprinkle of the feathery oar
That wing'd me round this fairy shore !
'Twas noon; and every orange bud
Hung languid o'er the crystal flood,
Faint as the lids of maiden eyes
Beneath a lover's burning sighs !
Oh for a najad's sparry bower,
To shade me in that glowing hour!
A little dove, of milky hue,
Before me from a plantain flew,

1 The sea-side or mangrove grape, a native of the West Indies

And, light, along the water's brim,

Of many a nightly dream it told, I steered my gentle bark by him;

When all that chills the heart by day, For Fancy told me, Love had sent

The worldly doubt, the caution cold, This snowy bird of blandishment,

In Fancy's fire dissolve away! To lead me where my soul should meet

When soul and soul divinely meet; I knew not what, but something sweet.

Free from the senses' guilty shame, Blest be the little pilot dove!

And mingle in a sigh so sweet, He had indeed been sent by Love,

As virtue's self would blush to blame! To guide me to a scene so dear,

How could he lose such tender words? As Fate allows but seldom here :

Words ! that of themselves should sprinig One of those rare and brilliant hours,

To Nea's ear, like panting birds, Which, like the aloe's' lingering flowers,

With heart and soul upon their wing May blossom to the eye of man

Oh! fancy what they dar'd to speak; But once in all his weary span!

Think all a virgin's shame can dread, Just where the margin's opening shade

Nor pause until thy conscious cheek A vista from the waters made,

Shall burn with thinking all they said ! My bird repos'd his silver plume

And I shall feigri, shall fancy, too, Upon a rich banana's bloom.

Some dear reply thou might'st have given Oh, vision bright! oh, spirit fair!

Shall make that lip distil its dew What spell, what magic rais'd her there?

In promise bland and hopes of heaven! 'Twas Nea! slumbering calm and mild,

Shall think it tells of future days, And bloomy as the dimpled child

When the averted cheek will turn, Whose spirit in elysium keeps

When eye with eye shall mingle rays, Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps !

And lip to lip shall closely burnThe broad banana's green embrace

Ah! if this flattery is not thine, Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace;

If colder hope thy answer brings, One little beam alone could win

I'll wish thy words were lost like mine, The leaves to let it wander in,

Since I can dream such dearer things! And, stealing over all her charms, From lip to cheek, from neck to arms, It glanc'd around a fiery kiss,

I found her not-the chamber seem'd All trembling, as it went, with bliss!

Like some divinely haunted place, Her eyelid's black and silken fringe

Where fairy forms had lately beam'd Lay on her cheek, of vermil tinge,

And left behind their odorous trace! Like the first ebon cloud, that closes

It felt, as if her lips had shed Dark on evening's heaven of roses !

A sigh around her, ere she fled, Her glances, though in slumber hid,

Which hung, as on a melting lute, Seem'd glowing through their ivory lid,

When all the silver chords are mute, And o'er her lip's reflecting dew

There lingers still a trembling breath A soft and liquid lustre threw,

After the note's luxurious death, Such as, declining dim and faint,

A shade of song, a spirit air
The lamp of some beloved saint

Of melodies which had been there !
Doth shed upon a flowery wreath,
Which pious hands have hung beneath.

I saw the web, which all the day,

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose ; Was ever witchery half so sweet! Think, think how all my pulses beat,

I saw the couch, where late she lay As o'er the rustling bank I stole

In languor of divine repose ! Oh! you, that know the lover's soul,

And I could trace the hallow'd print It is for you to dream the bliss,

Her limbs had left, as pure and warm The tremblings of an hour like this!

As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,

And love himself had stamp'd the form!

Oh, NEA! NEA! where wert thou?
ON THE LOSS OF A LETTER INTENDED

In pity fly not thus from me;
FOR NEA.

Thou art my life, my essence now,

And my soul dies of wanting thee! OH! it was fill'd with words of flame,

With all the wishes wild and dear, Which love may write, but dares not name, Which woman reads, but must not hear!

A KISS A L'ANTIQUE.

BEHOLD, my love, the curious gem 1 The Agave. I know that this is an erroneous idea, but Within this simple ring of gold; it is quite true enough for poetry. Plato, I think, allows a poot to be "three removes from truth;" tpotatos ***

'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them *ng Anuss.

Who liv'd in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
Upon her hand this gem display'd,

EPISTLE V.
Nor thought that time's eternal lapse
Should see it grace a lovelier maid !

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.
Look, darling, what a sweet design!

FROM BERMUDA.' The more we gaze, it charms the more :

March. Come,-closer bring that cheek to mine, And trace with me its beauties O'er.

“The daylight is gone—but, before we depart,

One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart, Thou see'st, it is a simple youth

To the kindest, the dearest-oh! judge by the tear, By some enamour'd nymph embrac'd- That I shed while I name him, how kind and how Look, Nea, love! and say, in sooth,

dear!" Is not her hand most dearly plac'd !

'Twas thus, by the shade of a calabash-tree, Upon his curled head behind

With a few who could feel and remember like me, It seems in careless play to lie,'

The charm, that to sweeten my goblet I threw, Yet presses gently, half inclin'd

Was a tear to the past and a blessing on you !
To bring his lip of nectar nigh!
Oh happy maid ! too happy boy!

Oh! say, do you thus, in the luminous hour

Of wine and of wit, when the heart is in flower, The one so fond and faintly loath, The other yielding slow to joy

And shoots from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,

In blossoms of thought ever springing and new! Oh, rare indeed, but blissful both!

Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim Imagine, love, that I am he,

Or your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him, And just as warm as he is chilling;

Who is lonely and sad in these vallies so fair, Imagine, too, that thou art she,

And would pine in elysium, if friends were not there! But quite as cold as she is willing :

1 Pinkerton has said that " a good history and description So may we try the graceful way

of the Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the In which their gentle arms are twin'd,

geographical library;" but there certainly are not materials And thus, like her, my hand I lay

for such a work. The island, since the time of its disco

very, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the people Upon thy wreathed hair behind :

have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there

is but little which the historian could amplify into imporAnd thus I feel thee breathing sweet,

tance; and, with respect to the natural productions of the As slow to mine thy head I move;

country, the few which the inhabitants can be induced to And thus our lips together meet,

cultivate are so common in the West Indies, that they have

been described by every naturalist, who has written ang And—thus I kiss thee-oh, my love!

account of those islands.

It is often asserted by the trans-atlantic politicians, that this little colony deserves more attention from the mother

country than it receives ; and it certainly possesses advan•••••λιβανοτω εικασιν, οτι σε πολλυμενον ευφραίνει.

lages of situation, to which we should not be long insensible, Aristot. Rhetor. Lib. iii. Cap. 4. if it were once in the hands of an enemy. I was told by a

celebrated friend of Washington, at New-York, that they THERE's not a look, a word of thine

had formed a plan for its capture, towards the conclusion of My soul hath e'er forgot ;

the American War; “ with the intention (as he expressed Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine,

himself,) of making it a nest of hornets for the annoyanco

of British trade in that part of the world." And there is Nor giv'n thy locks one graceful twine,

no doubi, it lies so fairly in the track to the West Indies, Which I remember not!

that an enemy might with ease convert it into a very haras

sing impediment. There never yet a murmur fell

The plan of Bishop Berkeley for a college at Bermuda, From that beguiling tongue,

where American savages might be converted and educated,

though concurred in by the government of the day, was a Which did not, with a lingering spell,

wild and useless speculation. Mr. Hamilton, who was goUpon my charmed senses dwell,

vernor of the island some years since, proposed, if I mistake Like something heaven had sung!

not, the establishment of a marine academy for the instruc

tion of those children of West Indians, who might be inAh! that I could, at once, forget

tended for any nautical employment. This was a more

rational idea, and for something of this nature the island is All, all that haunts me so

admirably calculated. But the plan should be much more And yet, thou witching girl !--and yet,

extensivo, and embrace a general system of education, To die were sweeter, than to let

which would entirely remove the alternative, in which the The lov'd remembrance go!

colonists are involved at present, of either sending their song

to England for instruction, or entrusting them to colleges in No; if this slighted heart must see

the Suntes of America, where ideas by no means favourIts faithful pulse decay,

able to Great Britain, are very sedulously inculcated.

The women of Bermuda, though not generally handsome, Oh! let it die, remembering thee,

have an affectionate languor in their look and manner, And, like the burnt aroma, be

which is always interesting. What the French imply by

their epithet aimante seems very much the character of the Consum'd in sweets away!

young Bermudian girls--that predisposition to loving, which,

without being awakened by any particular object, diffuses 1 Somewhat like the syınplegma of Cupid and Psyche itself through the general manner in a tone of tenderness at Florence, in which the position of Psyche's hand is that never fails to fascinate. The men of the island, I con finely expressive of affection. See the Museum Florenti- fess, are not very civilized; and the old philosopher, who num, Tom. ii. Tab. 43, 44. I know of very few subjects in imagined that, after this life, men would be changed into which poetry could be more interestingly omployed, than in mulos, and women into turtle doves, would find the meta illustrating somo of the ancient statues and gems. I morphosis in some degree anticipated at Bermuda.

Last night, when we came from the calabash-tree,
When my limbs were at rest and my spirit was free,
The glow of the grape and the dreams of the day,
Put the magical springs of my fancy in play;
And oh!-such a vision as haunted me then
I could slumber for ages to witness again!
The many I like, and the few I adore,
The friends, who were dear and beloved before,
But never till now so beloved and dear,
At the call of my fancy surrounded me here !
Soon, soon did the flattering spell of their smile
To a paradise brighten the blest little isle ;
Serener the wave, as they look'd on it, flow'd,
And warmer the rose, as they gather'd it, glow'd !
Not the vallies Heraan (though water'd by rills
of the pearliest flow, from those pastoral hills,'
Where the song of the shepherd, primæyal and wild,
Was taught to the nymphs by their mystical child,)
Could display such a bloom of delight, as was given
By the magic of love to this miniature heaven!
Oh, magic of love! unembellish’d by you,
Has the garden a blush or the herbage a hue ?
Or blooms there a prospect in nature or art,
Like the vista that shines through the eye to the heart?
Alas! that a vision so happy should fade !
That, when morning around me in brilliancy play'd,
The rose and the stream I had thought of at night
Should still be before me, unfadingly bright;
While the friends, who had seem'd to hang over the

stream,
And to gather the roses, had fled with my dream!
But see, through the harbour, in floating array,
The bark that must carry these pages away,?
Impatiently flutters her wings to the wind,
And will soon leave the bowers of Ariel behind!
What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of those billows would be,
And the sound of those gales would be music to me!
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the silvery lapse of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the breeze, or as bright as the foam
Of the wave, that would carry your wanderer home!

The boy in many a gambol flew,

While Reason, like a Juno stalk'd, And from her portly figure threw

A lengthen'd shadow, as she walk'd. No wonder Love, as on they pass'd,

Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell on the boy, and cool'd him still. In vain he tried his wings to warm,

Or find a pathway not so dim, For still the maid's gigantic form

Would pass between the sun and him! " This must not be," said little Love

“ The sun was made for more than you." So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bid the portly nymph adieu! Now gaily roves the laughing boy

O’er many a mead, by many a stream; In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam. From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He cull'd the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits, and smelt the flowers,

Till taste was gone and odour faded ! But now the sun, in pomp of noon,

Look'd blazing o'er the parched plains ; Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrill'd through all his veins ! The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with vivid bloom he smil'd Oh! where was tranquil Reason now,

To cast her shadow o'er the child ? Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm,

With brow as cool as his was burning! “Oh! take me to that bosom cold,"

In`murmurs at her feet he said ; And Reason op'd her garment's fold,

And flung it round his fever'd head. He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest ; For, ah! the chill was quite too much,

And Love expir'd on Reason's breast !

LOVE AND REASON. "Quand l'homme commence à raisonner, il cesse de sentir."

J. J. Rousseau." 'Twas in the summer-time so sweet,

When hearts and flowers are both in season,
That-who, of all the world, should meet,

One early dawn, but Love and Reason!
Love told his dream of yester-night,

While Reason talk'd about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,

And on they took their way together.

Nay, do not weep, my Fanny dear!

While in these arms you lie,
The world hath not a wish, a fear,
That ought to claim one precious tear

From that beloved eye!
The world!-ah, FANNY! love must shun

The path where many rove;
One bosom to recline upon,
One heart to be his only one,

Are quite enough for love!
What can we wish, that is not here

Between your arms and mine ?

I Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphois, the first inrentor of bucolic poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.--See ne lively description of these mountains in Diodorus Sicuule, Lib iv. Hραιο γαρ ορη κατα την Σικελιαν ιστιν, α φασι και αλλοι κ. τ. λ.

2 A ship, ready to sail for England. 3 Quoted somewhere in St. Pierre's Etudes de la Nature.

Is there, on earth, a space so dear,

Upon my breath thy sigh yet faintly hung;
As that within the blessed sphere

Thy name yet died in whispers o'er my tongue;
Two loving arms entwine!

I heard thy lyre, which thou hadst left behind,
For me there's not a lock of jet

In amorous converse with the breathing wind;

Quick to my heart I press'd the shell divine,
Along your temples curl'd,
Within whose glossy, tangled net,

And, with a lip yet glowing warm from thine,

I kiss'd its every chord, while every kiss
My soul doth not, at once, forget

Shed o'er the chord some dewy print of bliss.
All, all the worthless world!

Then soft to thee I touch'd the fervid lyre,
'Tis in your eyes, my sweetest love!

Which told such melodies, such notes of fire
My only worlds I see;

As none but chords, that drank the burning dews
Let but their orbs in sunshine move,

Of kisses dear as ours, could e'er diffuse!
And earth below and skies above

Oh love! how blissful is the bland repose,
May frown or smile for me!

That soothing follows upon rapture's close,
Like a soft twilight, o'er the mind to shed

Mild melting traces of the transport fled !
ASPASIA.

While thus I lay, in this voluptuous calm, 'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower,

A drowsy languor steep'd my eyes in balm, That Love and Learning many an hour,

Upon my lap the lyre in murmurs fell, In dalliance met, and Learning smil'd,

While, faintly wandering o'er its silver shell, With rapture on the playful child,

My fingers soon their own sweet requiem play'd, Who wanton stole to find his nest

And slept in music which themselves had made ! Within a fold of Learning's vest !

Then, then, my 'THEON, what a heavenly dream'

I saw two spirits, on the lunar beam, There, as the listening statesman hung Two winged boys, descending from above, In transport on Aspasia's tongue,

And gliding to my bower with looks of love, The destinies of Athens took

Like the young genii, who repose their wings Their colour from ASPAsia's look.

All day in Amatha's luxurious springs,' Oh happy time! when laws of state,

And rise at midnight, from the tepid rill When all that ruld the country's fate, To cool their plumes upon some moon-light hill! Its glory, quict, or alarms,

Soft o'er my brow, which kindled with their sighs, Was plann'd between two snowy arms ! Awhile they play'd; then gliding through niy eyes, Sweet times ! you could not always last

(Where the bright babies, for a moment, hung, And yet, oh! yet, you are not past;

Like those thy lip hath kiss'd, thy lyre hath sung, Though we have lost the sacred mould,

To that dim mansion of my breast they stole, In which their men were cast of old,

Where, wreath'd in blisses lay my captive soul. Woman, dear woman, still the same,

Swift at their touch dissolv'd the ties that clung While lips are balm, and looks are flame,

So sweetly round her, and aloft she sprung! While man possesses heart or eyes,

Exulting guides, the little genii flew Woman's bright empire never dies !

Through paths of light, refresh'd with starry dew,

And fann'd by airs of that ambrosial breath,
FANNY, my love, they ne'er shall say,

On which the free soul banquets after death!
That beauty's charm hath pass'd away ;
No-give the universe a soul

Thou know'st, my love, beyond our clouded skies, Attun'd to woman's soft control,

As bards have dream'd, the spirits' kingdom lies. And Fanny hath the charm, the skill,

Through that fair clime a sea of ether rolls? To wield a universe at will!

Gemm'd with bright islands, where the hallow'd souls, two flouting, luminous islands, in which the spirits of the blessed resido. Accordingly we find that the word 12 xoxvos

was sometimes synonymous with me, and death was not THE GRECIAN GIRL'S DREAM OF THE

unfrequontly called?****050 78005, or “the passage of the BLESSED ISLANDS.'

| Eunapius, in his life of Jambhchus, tells us of two TO HER LOVER.

beautiful little spirits or loves, which Jamblichus raised by enchantment from the warm springs at Gadara; "dicena

astantibus (says the nuthor of the Dii Fatidici, p. 160) illos *** TI **10;

esse loci Genios :" which words however are not in EunaΠο? γορκς, οσσοι τι κορον στηριξαν ερωτος.

pius. Απολλων περι Πλατιν». Oracul, Metric. I find from Cellarius, that Amatha, in the neighbourhood a Joan. Opsop. Collecta.

of Gardara, was also celebrated for its warm springs, and I have preferred it as a more poetical name than Gadara.

Cellarius quotes Hieronymus. "Est et alia villa in viciniu Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray,

Gadaræ nomine Amatha, ubi calidæ aquæ erumpunt."That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away? Geograph. Antiq. Lib. iii. cap. 13.

2 This belief of an ocean in the heavens, or“ waters above I linger'd still, in all the murmuring rest,

the firmament,” was one of the many physical errors in The languor of a soul too richly blest !

which the early fathers bewildered themselves. Le P. Baltus,

in bis “Defense des saints Pères accusés de Platonisme," 1“ It was imagined by some of the ancients that there is taking it for granted that the ancients were more correct in on ethereal ocean abovo us, and that the sun and moon are their notions, (which by no means appears from what I have

ocean."

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